


Out of the Frying Pan (Into the Fire)

by unintentionalove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Hand Jobs, M/M, Television
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 20:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12712674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionalove/pseuds/unintentionalove
Summary: Reason #28-- Time an EggHarry Styles is an actor and a musician who hasn't worked in awhile. So when he gets a call from his manager to appear on a celebreality "Worst Cooks" show, one that just happens to include the up and coming celebrity chef Louis Tomlinson, he accepts without hesitation. The competition could get hot, but first Harry has to learn how to time an egg.





	Out of the Frying Pan (Into the Fire)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the creators of the 50 Reasons Fest! Their patience has been endless-- I signed up for this challenge as a way to get myself back to writing, and as usually happens, many obstacles presented themselves. They were wonderful either way! Big thanks and love to my group chat cheerleaders. Lots of love to my wonderful sister for her encouragement and ideas, always willing to chat fic writing. And most of all huge thanks and love to my beta for their excellent, thorough, and QUICK beta skills, this wouldn't have gotten done without you!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Harry needed to keep his balance. One wrong step and the green juice (that had been obscenely priced as far as green juices go) would topple out of Harry’s hands and fall with a splat onto the concrete below. He had never been any good at that thing perpetually busy people did, where they shouted orders into their phones pressed against their shoulders and somehow managed to carry a million things in their hands at the same time. He didn’t expect he’d get any good at it in time to take this call either, and multimillionaire though he may be, he was not prepared to waste a perfectly good—and perfectly expensive—green juice.

 

“What, Nicholas?” he practically snarled into the mouth of the phone. His driver opened the car door and Harry was trying to keep everything upright while sliding in the backseat.

 

“Good morning, gorgeous! I see you’re particularly cheery this lovely London morning!” 

 

“What are you on about? You’re not even in London.” 

 

Normally, Harry easily returned Nick’s banter. His longtime manager and friend always meant well, but on mornings when he was already strained he never received it well. That never deterred Nick, though.

 

“Okay listen, sweetheart, I’m not just calling to take the piss. I’m calling about a job.”

 

Harry, who had been slouched with his juice between his knees after finally settling into the back of his town car, sat up straight as if he’d been struck by lightning.

 

“What kind of job?”

 

“Ah, that got your attention, didn’t it?” Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. “Have you ever heard of a show called ‘Worst Celebrity Cooks’?”

 

Harry faltered. 

 

“Em—the American show? On Netflix?” Harry couldn’t be sure Nick wasn’t actually calling to take the piss. Was he drunk? Had he called the wrong client? That wasn’t like Nick.

 

“Yep, the American show on Netflix. Well I got a call from one of their casting agents who’d like to know if you’d be interested in the next season.”

 

Silence fell on the line. Nick’s silence was anticipatory of a response, but Harry’s silence was confused, perplexed even. 

 

“Am… Am I really that hard up for gigs, Nick?” Harry practically whispered into the phone. 

 

He heard Nick call across his office, “Gem! You owe me a tenner and a round at the pub tonight! So sorry, Harry, but I knew you’d react like this.”

 

When Harry thought about it objectively—which he wasn’t keen on doing—he knew it had been awhile since he’d worked consistently. He hadn’t been offered another movie role despite his team’s best efforts, and it was about to be the two year anniversary of his (sold out, thank you very much) world tour. He’d done a lot to keep busy, even become a certified SoulCycle instructor, but having steady creative work was what he really longed for.

 

“How long’s the shoot?”

 

“Eight weeks.” Nick replied. One of the things Harry loved most about Nick was his ability to present an idea to Harry without pressing into it too hard, too quickly. He knew it was best to let him mull the idea over in his brain before launching into a pitch. 

 

“I assume,” Nick began again slowly, “they contacted us because they’re looking for someone who can appeal to a younger demographic.”

 

“A younger  _ female _ demographic,” Harry griped.

 

“You appeal to a more mixed demo than you think you do, Sue. Don’t kid yourself.”

 

A smile spread across Harry’s face. 

 

“Speaking of which,” Nick continued, “I think another reason they might have called is because I believe you know a certain judge on the show. Does the name Louis Tomlinson ring a bell?”

 

There was a flash of a brilliant smile complete with eye crinkles and a Yorkshire lilt resounding through the corridors of Harry’s mind. Was the car spinning around?

 

“Emm… he’s a chef, yeah?”

 

“Only one of the most notorious in Britain. After Gordon Ramsay. Oh and maybe Jamie Oliver. Well, there’s also Nigella. But you know, times have changed with her and all.” Nick made a crass and exaggerated nasal noise between a sniff and a snort, and Harry burst out laughing.

 

“Alright yeah, I know who he is. Think he’s catered one or two events I’ve been at.”

 

“I’m sure he has. Anyway, the producers seem to think the two of you will get along quite well and they’re offering some pretty generous compensation for an appearance. Oh, but if you win, you have to donate the ‘prize money’ to charity, is how it works.”

 

Harry’s mum’s face ran through his head. She took care of all of all of his charity efforts and she’d come after him with a cleaver if he turned down a chance to win money for one of the charities they were patrons of. 

 

“Okay I’ll do it.”

 

Nick sounded surprised as he responded, “Oh brilliant! I didn’t think I’d get you to cave this easily.” Harry rolled his eyes again. “The producers will certainly be happy they don’t have to fly out here to London to convince you. I’ll let them know today and get back to you with the details.”

 

“Sure. Bugger off then, Nicholas. You’re delaying my mid-morning meditation.”

 

“Have a splendid time in Nirvana, cupcake.” 

 

With a  _ click  _ Harry heard the phone disconnect on his manager’s end. He pulled the mirror compact down from the ceiling absentmindedly and studied himself. He had recently shorn his famously long hair and donated it to charity, and he was still minorly shocked every time he saw his reflection with the slicked sides and the top quiff, tendrils delicately hanging in his eyes like some teen heartthrob of yore. 

 

That’s what he was going for, after all. Teen heartthrob. Only he wasn’t a teenager anymore, he was about to be in his mid-twenties and it’d been two years since he’d won both a GRAMMY and an Academy Award. “Two short of the EGOT,” his sister had said with a wink as he’d unpackaged the Oscar statuette at his Manchester home.

 

In two years, he hadn’t managed to land that follow-up acting gig he had wanted as he stood on a premiere carpet for his first film. Several bombshell news stories had ricocheted around the acting world, and Harry had found himself rather disillusioned with all of it. But that’s how he knew who Louis Tomlinson was—sitting on his sofa in his home in Los Angeles, he’d binge watched all of the competition shows that featured him as a judge. Fiery backgrounds and flying knives and all.

 

He’d had the somewhat distinct pleasure of meeting Louis Tomlinson at a fundraising gala for a childhood hunger charity his mum sat on the board for. He’d donated quite a generous sum that year, the year he’d won his awards. Harry fidgeted with his juice cup’s lid as he remembered it.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

He had been in a particularly itchy Gucci suit. When he’d complained about it, his mum had scolded him as though he were five years old, “Lots of people don’t get to wear Gucci suits in their lifetime, Harry. Besides, you look devastatingly handsome.” 

 

When they had gotten inside, ascending their way up a grand staircase with his mum’s dress trailing behind her, Harry had realized this suit wasn’t just itchy, it was hot. This was what he got for wearing wool in April. He’d been in a daze. The same people mingling, sipping champagne, and reveling in all of the money they were giving to charitable causes. Harry found it immensely boring, but he was a good actor (if he said so himself). He smiled at all the right times, helped his mother like a gentleman, and blended in well with the “upper crust” as his father called them.

 

Still boring, though.

 

He was standing in a semi-circle that consisted of his mum, himself, and two producers (one of whom Harry had forgotten but was quite sure he knew his face) when he heard the most raucous, disturbing laugh behind him. 

 

It wasn’t disturbing in a scary way, more that it shook the monotonous atmosphere of this overly crowded and yet somehow incredibly hushed concert hall to its core. The laugh was staccato, punctuated like someone was being hit in the throat in between “ha’s”, but it filled the whole hall with glee and amusement, and Harry wanted to be a part of whatever that conversation held, so he turned on his heel to see who the laugh had come from. 

 

The man he saw standing nearly half the room away from him was still nearly bent double in joyful laughter. It was hard to make him out from this distance with the way the other man was standing, but Harry noted that he was surrounded by several famous women. He recognized a makeup artist who had worked on a shoot of his right off the bat. Was it rude to move toward another circle of people if conversation remained flowing in his current circle?

 

As if on cue, Harry heard his mum speak in a slightly elevated tone.

 

“Isn’t that wonderful, Harry? Jack here was just explaining his new project he’s ever so interested in having you aboard for.” 

 

The look she was giving him could have bored a hole into ice in the dead of winter. Harry cleared his throat. 

 

“Em, yeah. Wonderful. That’s excellent. I’ll give you my manager Nick’s number, then?”

 

The man who must have been Jack split into a smile. “Brilliant! Such a pleasure to talk with you. And you, Anne. Always impressed with your work.”

 

Harry’s mum smiled demurely.

 

“You’re so flattering. It was a pleasure to see you both again, but I think I should take my son to get something to eat, he’s looking a bit put out.”

 

Harry joined them in the soft, sycophantic  laughter as he gently took his mum’s elbow to guide her away from the pair. She waggled her fingers in a friendly goodbye wave as she leaned closer to him, her long black hair grazing his shoulder.

 

“What is the matter with you tonight?” she whispered.

 

“Do you know that shorter man over there by the entrance?”

 

Anne’s eyes raked over the various clusters of people and white-jacketed servers and landed where Harry had indicated. A small smile spread across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes.

 

“Ah, yes actually. That’s Louis Tomlinson. He’s a chef. Bit of a protegee for Gordon Ramsay, they say. I bet he could teach you a thing or two.” She jabbed him lightly in the ribs at the good-natured joke and Harry let out an amused puff as he continued to study the man as he and his mum moved slowly toward him.

 

He was short alright, but it was more than that. Everything about him seemed to be compact and slight. He had broader shoulders than a man his height should, muscular arms that never simply hung at his sides since Harry had begun watching him, and Harry noticed indulgently, a brilliant ass and thighs. Even in trousers he could see the rounded shape, the toned perfection.

 

He had to shake his head to focus. The man turned as Harry and his mom approached, and Harry had to hold back a gasp.

 

Wisps of golden-brown hair nearly fell into the bluest eyes, set atop a perfectly crooked nose and obscenely plump pink lips. He was the most beautiful human Harry had ever seen, and he’d seen quite a few good looking men working in Hollywood. He was a chef? Why wasn’t he a model? Had it not worked out? What kind of absurd thought was that? Of course it would work out if this glorious human being were to ever model.

 

“Mr. Tomlinson,” Anne began, extending her hand to meet him.

 

“Louis, please.” 

 

His smile sent Harry’s head spinning.

 

“Louis,” Anne continued with a small smile, “I’d like you to meet my son, Harry.”

 

Harry’s breath caught in his chest as he perfunctorily extended his hand. The shorter man gave a closed-mouth smile and gripped his hand tightly before releasing it. Jolts of electricity surged through Harry’s hands down to his legs, rooting him on the spot where he stood, and forcing him to stand ramrod straight and jerk an awkward smile before averting his eyes in a desperate attempt to save the moment.

 

“I’m Harry Styles,” Harry said breathlessly. His voice was abnormally airy and high-pitched, causing Anne’s eyes to slide over in a suspicious sidelong glance.

 

Louis’ smile was sarcastic, but not mean in nature. It was like he couldn’t help mutually acknowledging the idiocy of what Harry had just said, however silently he was doing so.

 

“I know who you are.” Louis accompanied this statement with a sly wink, and Harry’s knees almost gave way beneath him.

 

Mercifully, Anne cut in.

 

“Louis’ mum Johannah is on the board of this organization with me, Harry. They’re patrons and pretty sizeable contributors, for which we’re endlessly thankful.”

 

“You’re too kind, love. Thanks. Always something we’ve cared about, just lucky we’re in the position we are now to be able to give back, yeah?”

 

His accent was going to send Harry swinging from the goddamned crystal chandelier. He was panicking. Was the collar of his shirt getting tighter? Did his shirt have a collar? His pants were definitely getting tighter—thank you very much—and all he knew was he had to find a way out before he made a complete dolt of himself.

 

“Er, excuse me,” he interrupted. Anne and Louis looked startled, then Louis’ face easily switched to a sort of bewilderment that only made Harry’s cheeks burn. “I think I’ve just seen someone I need to catch. Will you excuse me?” 

 

But it didn’t matter whether they would because Harry nearly had his back turned as he practically jogged toward the first familiar face he saw.

-

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

You idiot, Harry thought as the car pulled up to his SoulCycle studio. You just signed up to be alone with him on set for months.

 

Was it months? He realized Nick’d been scant on the details. And he wouldn’t be “alone on set” with him. There’d be loads of other people there. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be alone with him. He prayed he’d never be alone with him for any reason, because he certainly couldn’t be trusted to do things like speak full sentences with those eyes blazing above him.

 

“Mr. Styles, er. We’ve arrived, sir.”

 

Oh, right. This was the part where he had to get out of the car and go on about his daily life. Business as usual. 

 

“Oh, right. Sorry about that, Nigel. See you in a couple of hours?”

 

Nigel vigorously nodded his head with a smile. He was one of Harry’s favorite drivers while he was staying in London, which he’d been doing a lot lately. He tended to get close with the people who worked for him. Speaking of which, his assistant Sarah was walking up to the car as he pulled the handle to step out.

 

“Right then.” she smiled at him, her ash-blonde hair falling into her eyes. She was always flustered and Harry always felt the need to calm her down. “We’ve got a lot to do today!”

 

“Do we?” Harry was perplexed. He didn’t know of anything big on his schedule for the foreseeable future, but Sarah was already nodding and hurrying him along.

 

“I’d never deprive you of your exercise, I know how you get without it. But Nick just sent over details for several meetings between you and a couple of producers. I assume he phoned you first?”

 

Harry sighed. So he was doing this, after all.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

Was this a chef’s knife? And what exactly was a serrated knife? Harry knew Gemma had told him this before, but he’d never bothered to listen. He should have listened. He could hear his sister’s voice in his head right now,  _ yes you bloody well should have _ . 

 

The month leading up to Harry standing on the “Worst Cooks” set had passed too quickly for his liking. Several meetings with skinny-tied producers had let him know the ins and outs of the production.

 

“Look,” one producer, Colin, had started, “we’re sure you know how to do more than boil pasta and microwave Lean Cuisines—” 

 

“Wouldn’t bet on that one,” Nick jabbed with a wink.

 

“The point is that this is television;American reality television at that. The viewing public goes crazy for the Brits, I mean look at Ramsay, Irvine, fucking Mary Berry for chrissakes. But we’re gonna play it up just like we always do, you know?” The man talking had introduced himself as Bradley, but Colin kept referring to him as “Brad” so Harry assumed Bradley was merely a formality. 

 

Nick nodded knowingly. “I think you’ll find that Harry’s quite easy to work with simply because of his familiarity with the American style of media. Is a bit different from what we do here in the UK but he’s grown up being in the States often and has a good sense of what you’re looking for.”

 

“Which is exactly why we called,” Brad began again. “This guy Tomlinson—”

 

Harry’s arms started tingling and he wished they wouldn’t. It was incredibly inconvenient to have a visceral reaction every time they brought this man up.

 

“They’ve been wanting to break him into the American market for quite some time now. After Zakarian left, we needed a new host. There was some concern that we’re oversaturated with British chefs right now, but I don’t think that’s true. Give him someone like Styles here to remind him of home and bring out that connection, and I think we’ve got gold. After all, we’ve already got a second British chef in Liam Payne. He replaced Rachel Ray and that was a hit.”

 

“I’ll be honest gentlemen.” Nick looked poised to strike. “We are using this is as a stepping stone to get Harry back into people’s minds.”

 

“Fine by us,” Colin said. “The appearance is what we care about, since we’re all being frank now. The face, the name… The bigger ones we attract, the more money we make.”

 

And that had been that. They’d all shook hands and then Harry had signed a lot of papers and so had Nick. Nick had made travel plans (or an assistant of Nick’s had made travel plans) and Harry had spent a lot of time in LA before flying to Manhattan, and here he stood. In a studio kitchen under glaring hot lights wondering what the hell he was doing.

 

Another assistant with a headset and a clipboard approached Harry.

 

“Mr. Styles?” she asked cautiously. Assistants were always cautious on sets and in meetings with celebrities, Harry had found. They were the first to go whenever someone got mad. It was easy to get drunk off the power, as he’d seen so many people do. He was sure he’d see it here. He hadn’t been raised to be that kind of person though, so he extended his hand as she proffered a weak smile.

 

“Harry, please,” he said warmly.

 

“Only when Angela’s not around. I’m Katie by the way, your assistant for the duration of the shoot.”

 

“Angela the producer?”

 

As Katie nodded her head and launched into some sort of explanation, Harry’s attention began to drift to the people who had begun arriving around him.

 

That girl was a Playboy Playmate, Harry was sure of it. She was a Victoria’s Secret model now, and he knew that because Victoria’s Secret models were sort of his wheelhouse. He wasn’t out, after all. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember her name. He was certain she was a friend of one of the girls he’d been forced to spend time with. Hadn’t she married an American football player? American WAGs were so different from the British ones.

 

Was that Erik Estrada? Again? Harry had seen him on so many of these celeb-reality shows. He’d always wanted to meet him, though. Maybe this would be his chance. Oh my god, that was David Hasselhoff. Harry was on a celeb-reality cooking show with David Hasselhoff.

 

“The Hoff?” Harry said to Katie in a smooth tone of voice. She gave a knowing smile in return.

 

“We’ve got Camilla Cabello, too. I’m sure you know of her?”

 

“Unfortunately,” Harry quipped. Katie snorted.

 

“And uh, Bette Midler as well, last I checked.”

 

“Bette Midler?!”

 

Katie raised her eyes level with his, something he couldn’t describe hiding behind them. A sort of kinetic energy that had some sort of knowledge to it.

 

“Ah, a fan of theatre, I see?” She said it very purposefully, drawing out the words and adding loads of meaning to them. Harry didn’t quite get what she was pushing at for a few seconds after the words dropped like anvils. And then one of the anvils hit him over the head.

 

“Oh. OH! Um. Yeah, I am.”

 

“Honestly, who isn’t in this town am I right? Well at least you’ll have some company.”

 

“Oh?” Harry’s eyebrows nearly lifted to his hairline. Most of the people here with him were people he’d never met, and he was curious.

 

There was a commotion on set before Katie could answer directly: the one and only Louis Tomlinson. Harry’s chest seized as if grabbed in some sort of death grip. He was far away but drawing closer with at least two assistants trying to keep up with him, complete with headsets and clipboards. This was obviously not his first time on a television set, nor was he shy to make any demands as he dropped orders like pebbles behind him.

 

“Sam, I need my coffee before we begin this shoot. Two extra shots, I didn’t sleep last night. One hundred and ninety degrees; I want it so hot it could burn the life back into Keith Richards. Mal, I need you to phone my sister and let her know I’ll pick her and Tommy up from LAX just as soon as I’m done here tomorrow and then phone the restaurant to make sure the reservations are nailed down for tomorrow evening. I don’t want another situation like last time.”

 

“Speak of the devil,” Katie muttered under her breath. What kind of devil was she talking about? Was he hard to work with? Did she mean he was gay, too? Hadn’t he dated some girl, Harry was trying to think of her name but nothing would come to mind. Of course dating girls around here never meant much, it certainly didn’t for him. Katie turned back toward him, ignoring Tomlinson’s continued commands behind her and giving another serene smile and a sigh.

 

“Can I get you some coffee before you head into the pre-production meeting?”

 

“Production meeting?” Harry realized, again, how underprepared he was. Thank Nicholas for that one, he made a mental note.

 

“No offense, but your team really is awful at prepping you.” 

 

Harry’s eyebrows raised again.

 

“Jesus, not like  _ that! _ ”

 

Harry had to laugh. Seeing Louis Tomlinson had his mind wandering all sorts of places it shouldn’t be going before he had to be professional on set.

 

“Anyway,” Katie said pointedly, “we have a roundtable production meeting before we begin shooting with everyone in the cast, just to go over the day and what we want to capture and what we’re hoping to get from all of you. Clear expectations make the shoot go smoothly and quickly.”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“Do you have a call sheet for me by chance?”

 

“I have a paper copy. Several, in fact, if you’d prefer one. Your team was supposed to send you the whole weekly schedule.”

 

He stared at her round face, tendrils of hair hanging in large, brown eyes. She really was quite pretty.

 

“Of course not,” she sighed. “Remind me to tell the production assistant that your team is a nightmare.”

 

“So now I have to go… in the room… with everyone?” He said slowly, a hint of desperation edging his tone.

 

Katie nodded. 

 

“I go with you, just in case you need anything. Any notes they give you, I jot down and send to you later. Just as reminders.”

 

They walked in step toward the back of the studio. Wide, open sets dissipated into a narrow corridor with door after door of numbered conference rooms. Harry felt his stomach give another lurch. God, it was annoying to have gastrointestinal responses to nervousness and anxiety.

 

Katie stepped in front of him as they reached a room marked “280” and twisted the long handle to swing the door open. They stepped into a plain room that housed a whiteboard on one wall, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the door, and a long, pale, wood conference table with squishy, swiveling chairs surrounding it. In the middle was a speakerphone. Several faces turned toward Harry and Katie as they walked in. 

 

Oh my god, Harry thought. It’s Bette Midler. He had grown up watching  _ Beaches _ , wanting to be exactly like the indomitable force known as CeCe Bloom. 

 

That was all the attention he focused on Bette Midler, though. There, sitting at the head of the table, splayed with papers and coffee and a sarcastic smile to boot, was Louis Tomlinson. The conference room was large, but it wasn’t that large. Harry’s head started to spin. 

 

“Ah good, Harry.” A man Harry recognized from one of his initial meetings stood up and approached him, arm extended before grasping his hand in a firm shake. “Now that everyone’s here, we can get down to business. But first, some introductions are in order I think.”

 

Harry settled into one of the chairs a comfortable distance away from where Louis Tomlinson was radiating his warmth, and Katie assumed the chair behind his, poised with her phone and ready to take notes.

 

“I don’t think we need to introduce the guests in this room, most of you know of each other from various other projects. I did, however, want to take a moment to introduce our two mentors:  Liam Payne and Louis Tomlinson. They have both built extremely successful brands and we’re pleased to have two British chefs joining us for a thoroughly American competition.” 

 

The man winked, and Liam and Louis let out knowing chuckles. Harry surveyed the room to see deadpan stares in return, but he thought silently that maybe he’d gotten the inside joke. British ‘competition’ shows weren’t quite similar to ones in the States. People conducted themselves differently, the format was different, the incentives were different… the talent was different.

 

Nonetheless, as Harry brought his eyes back to Louis, the voices around him faded. The man was talking about production schedules and introducing challenge producers and cameramen, but Harry was staring. He knew he was doing it, because every now and then Louis’ eyes would flicker towards his and Harry would surreptitiously drop his gaze to his hands only to lift it again moments later. Every time they caught each other, Harry’s cheeks burned with renewed fire and he could swear he saw a self-satisfied smirk beginning to form on Louis’ lips.

 

Maybe it was because his head felt submerged underwater, or as though a thousand bees were buzzing around inside it, but he let out a steadying breath when the producer concluded everything he wanted to say and thanked them all for coming, promising to see them on set in two hours following a lunch break to begin shooting their first scenes.

 

“Hey princess,” a silvery high-pitched voice said near his shoulder. Harry spun around quickly to see him hovering over him, within touching distance. He wasn’t tall by any means, but his presence looming over a seated Harry was intimidating. Wisps of golden-brown fringe fell into those blue eyes that held Harry’s lungs captive, keeping him from taking a full breath. 

 

“Meeting’s over. I hear you’re the only other Brit on set with us, yeah?” 

 

Harry simply nodded incredulously and the smirk on Louis’ face grew so wide it reached his eyes to crinkle the corners.

 

“Excellent. Where might you come from?”

 

Question, Harry thought. He just asked you a direct question. Answer. Now.

 

“Manchester.” It came out as something Harry didn’t recognize, so atypical for his usual gruff, deep, commanding voice. It was a wisp of air that had escaped on what little breath he had left. Louis looked him up and down and then, oh and then, he leaned in to whisper in Harry’s ear and it took every ounce of power he had left not to faint.

 

“Love me a Manchester boy.”

 

He stood up straight as Harry’s heartbeat soared, pulsing into his eardrums and completely drowning out sound. He leaned back in his chair as Louis Tomlinson walked away. 

 

That solved that, then.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

“Quiet on set, please!” a voice screamed above the din.

 

Katie was finishing the buttons at the top of a rather uncomfortable chef’s jacket they’d asked Harry to put on. It was ridiculous, but then so was everything on telly these days.

 

The set around him was enormous, large blinding lights hung from the ceiling and stations of hobs  and a sink with various other accoutrement of culinary prowess that Harry probably couldn’t tell from a butter knife if he tried. He knew what a food processor was, and a blender. It was there that his knowledge stopped, though.

 

“So uh, what is it that I’m supposed to be doing?” he asked Katie in hushed tones.

 

“Christ, you didn’t listen to a word Jonathan said, did you?”

 

“...Who’s Jonathan?” 

 

That must have been the wrong question because Katie stared at him, mouth agape.

 

“The… producer?? The one who was just leading the meeting we were at? For fuck’s sake, I’m not usually rough with the people I’m assigned to but if you’re that far gone for him at least ask him out to coffee to let some of that mystique wear off, which I promise it will.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened. He knew it was more than likely a bit obvious that he was slightly enamored with the head chef, but he hadn’t realized it was that obvious.

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

He pretended to busy himself with rolling his sleeves and setting out some knives while Katie rolled her eyes again and jotted something on her clipboard.

 

“So the first challenge here is to make a dish that best represents you, reminds you of childhood and nostalgia. That sound simple enough?” 

 

“My mum still toasts my bread because I burn it every time, so…” Harry let the end of the sentence trail off as he looked down at the countertop where his hand rested. Surprisingly, Katie laughed. 

 

“There’s a good one for the diary producers. Those are the people you’ll talk to one on one to help narrate the competition by the way, since you really didn’t hear a single word said in that meeting.”

 

There was a long pause between them and Harry heard that laugh again—staccato, punctuated by breath. His head snapped up to see Louis playfully engaged with the other chef mentor, Liam. They looked easy, comfortable. Something in Harry felt envious and he didn’t quite understand it, all he could make sense of was that he wanted to be playfully punched the way Liam was, wanted to make Louis laugh that laugh.

 

Katie snapped her fingers in front of his face, grounding him back in reality.

 

“Any idea what you’re going to make?”

 

“Well…” Harry was rubbish at thinking on his feet but then mercifully something popped into his head. “My mum always makes something called Scotch Eggs at Christmastime. Maybe I’ll try those. I think I’ve got the basics down.”

 

“I’m gonna pretend I know what that is, and I’ll let Jonathan know. Be right back, don’t do anything rash while I’m gone and don’t introduce yourself to Estrada or Hasselhoff without me there.”

 

Truth be told, Harry had completely forgotten he was on a set with “The Hoff” or Erik Estrada. Or Bette fucking Midler. Because the only place his eyes went were to the compact little chef with the magical laugh and the delicious thighs.

 

How the hell was he supposed to focus enough to cook? Oh my god, he was going to burn it. Or something of the sort and then Louis would think he was ridiculous.

 

“Right folks, if I could have your attention!” Harry lifted his eyes to see a new man in a headset. He was never going to keep all the producers straight. “We’re going to be doing the cooking segment first and then afterward you’ll all be sitting down with a producer to document your thought processes while you cooked.”

 

The opening shot was of Liam Payne introducing the competition.

 

“Six celebrities have reached the pinnacles of their chosen fields, but they live at the bottom of the culinary pyramid. Can they climb to the top to take home the prize for their chosen charity? Season five of Worst Chefs starts right now!” Liam read his lines from the prompter a few times.

 

The director stood from his chair and drew closer to the group, every person standing behind their individual miniature kitchen stations. “Okay people,” he rubbed his eyes as he talked, “this is the introductory scene so don’t worry about technique or anything, just cook like you would at home. Louis and Liam will be walking around and asking questions, just try to have fun with it.”

 

“Yeah and try not to get the fire department called like last year,” Louis quipped as he approached from behind the cameras. Walking into high effect lighting only made this worse for Harry, who was already having trouble concentrating. 

 

“We have emergency services on standby if need be.” It struck Harry that the producer who said this wasn’t joking at all and suddenly he was worried. He was going to be the one to burn the food, he knew it.

 

The director nodded. “We do. Okay so when I call action we’re going to begin with Louis and Liam introducing the challenge and then we’ll launch straight into the cook time without a cut. Everyone copasetic?” Harry looked around to see the other famous faces nodding, but he noted their eyes were just as wide with terror as his seemed to be so he nodded along as the director backed his way out of the light. “Excellent! Okay fellas, ready on three, two, one, and ACTION.”

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

It had not gone well.

 

Harry sat in his hotel suite with a bandage around his arm, resultant of a hot oil splash as he dunked a battered, sausage-wrapped, boiled egg inside the shimmering liquid. He had heard Louis, of all people, yell for the medic, and the whole thing had been caught on camera. The Scotch Egg had been burned to a blackened crisp by consequence, and the producers had still made Louis and Liam eat it during the follow-up scenes set at a roundtable where each celebrity and the mentors tried everyone’s food together.

 

“Most of you Yanks won’t even know what a Scotch Egg is,” Liam had remarked while he dissected the monstrosity in front of him with knit eyebrows.

 

“Right, which is why it’s such a shame that this is your first exposure to it,” added Louis, with his typical sarcastic wink. Harry felt the blood rush all to his cheeks with Louis’ words. Usually, he wasn’t a person who worried himself over the opinions of others. He didn’t know which bothered him more: the fact that he was embarrassing himself in front of Louis or the fact that he cared that he was embarrassing himself in front of Louis Tomlinson, a man he didn’t know and had only spoken to on two occasions.

 

The celebrities and the chef mentors had gagged their way through Harry’s charred creation. But it had been Louis who had set Harry’s stomach on fire with what he had said as they panned away from him and to the next person down the line, “Don’t worry, stud. We’ll have you juggling eggs and sausage like a pro by the time we’re done here.” 

 

Harry had gagged again, but this time it wasn’t the taste of the food that had done it.

 

He sat on his bed, fingers steepled just above the pooch of his stomach. He was sat awkwardly bent upward toward the head of his bed, but he couldn’t be fucked to move with all of the thoughts running through his head. He shouldn’t be alone, and his whole family was sound asleep in England.

 

Louis Tomlinson was an audacious flirt who made inappropriate remarks and Harry wasn’t sure he liked it. Harry wasn’t sure he liked him. He hated the way he saw dancing spots at the edges of his vision whenever Louis walked into a room, how his stomach flipped whenever he thought of him. Goddamnit, he didn’t even  _ know _ him.

 

A sudden, soft knock on the door had him snapping his neck forward and scrambling from the bed, painfully whacking his shin as he went. He rubbed his neck as he stood frozen in front of the suite door, half not wanting to open it. 

 

It could be Nick. No, it wouldn’t be Nick he wouldn’t fly from London to New York to show up at Harry’s door. It could be Katie, that seemed the most likely answer and Harry needed to ask her to arrange dinner reservations anyway, so he pulled the door open. 

 

It wasn’t Katie.

 

Harry’s entire stomach seized and dropped as his eyes fell on Louis Tomlinson’s face, standing inches away from him again, within touching distance. And alone. To his credit, Louis wore a giant, blinding smile and kept his bright blue eyes friendly. Harry could see the stubble on his chin more closely now, and god help him he wanted that stubble between his thighs.

 

He took a deep breath to steady and focus himself and tried to appear at least amicably neutral.

 

“Tomlinson? Can I help you with something?”

 

Louis raised his eyebrows with a surreptitious smirk. The thing about Louis, Harry had noticed in record short time, was that he always moved and smiled and spoke as though he were up to something, as though his brain was three steps ahead of everyone else’s. 

 

“Styles,” Louis drawled, slowly and simply. He gave him more than one glance over from head to toe, and Harry didn’t know whether to allow his knees to buckle or shout at him to state his purpose and then be gone. Instead, he chose to stare. He had already posed a question to Louis. Waiting seemed like the best option. “Well…” he broke the silence, drawing the end of the word out for effect. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

 

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, stepping aside to let Louis brush past him in the narrow entryway. Fire ignited on his arm where he had felt the contact, and he hastily closed the door and spun, rubbing the spot that was now in flames with eyebrows knit.

 

Harry couldn’t help himself as soon as his eyes made contact with Louis’ form, he began to analyze. Gone was the chef’s coat he’d come to know from binge watching episodes of Louis’ appearances on Netflix by the glow of his telly in a dark room, sipping gin straight from the bottle and trying to discern what exactly made him so irresistible and infuriating. Standing in front of him, he looked incredibly slick and cool. His dark skinny jeans hugged the offensive curves of his calves and thighs and—Harry gulped—a glorious arse he knew was incomparable. He was mildly conscious of a soft gray t-shirt that exposed a beautiful set of collarbones with dips Harry would love to bite, but the first priority for biting lay far below the collar bones and he knew he was staring.

 

Louis cleared his throat loudly, amusement skipping across his features as Harry dragged his eyes back to meet the crystal blue ones staring back at him.

 

“Like what you see?” Louis quipped. Harry rolled his eyes in response, causing Louis to let out a shortened version of that staccato laugh that made the room spin.

 

“Why are you here?” Harry whispered. Louis’ face grew serious.

 

“I’m here because that Scotch Egg was a tragedy, mate.”

 

Harry pursed his lips and put a hand on his hip in self-defense. Something in him knew Louis was only poking fun, but he didn’t seem to have time for it—even as good natured as he usually was.

 

“So you came to tell me my cooking is rubbish? Do you do this for all of the contestants on a show called Worst Cooks, then?”

 

Louis put his hands up, palms out in mock surrender.

 

“Alright, alright. You got me. I came here to invite you to dinner at my place. But you’re so thin you know, and with cooking like that I imagine it’s been some time since you had a proper meal, innit?”

 

Was… was Louis Tomlinson stood before him asking him on a date?

 

No. No, a  _ date  _ was going out and getting all dressed up and having a meal prepared by an excellent chef. But then again,  _ Louis was a chef.  _ His mind began to flood with any other possible ulterior motive besides romance or attraction. Maybe he was simply trying to show off. But if anyone wanted to show off for Harry, perhaps the one person in the world who wouldn’t annoy him by doing so was right here in front of him.

 

“Okay,” Harry said slowly, “just let me get my things.”

 

————————-

 

Louis’ apartment was chic and fabulous. Clean lines, dark wood, black stone countertops, bamboo plants; he was much more than Harry had expected, though thinking back to the time he had practically collapsed meeting Louis in a well-tailored tuxedo, he didn’t know why he’d expected any different.

 

The cab ride to his apartment had been filled with sporadic bouts of conversation and then awkward silence. Louis had asked about his mum and then proceeded to launch into a diatribe about cooking for charity fundraisers. Harry hadn’t caught most of what he said because he had had his eyes fixed on the pillows of Louis’ lips the entire time, but he reasoned now that he must have nodded along appropriately enough to not bring attention to it entirely.

 

Louis placed his keys in a shallow dish on a small table near his door before turning to guide Harry through the apartment, walking backwards and chatting along with a smile. 

 

“It’s quite a cozy place for an apartment in the States, paid for by the network, especially for a single guy like me and all.”

 

For the first time since they had exited the cab and Louis had paid, he fell silent. Harry could only wonder if that was a hint of some sort, there was something like lust in Louis’ eyes now and he felt a hook attach behind his navel and give a gentle tug. 

 

“Anyway, the kitchens through here,” he rushed on. Harry felt the moment shatter like a vase against a hard floor, splintering into a million crystalline pieces as his shoulders sagged behind Louis and he followed him into the open kitchen. Metal appliances gleamed back at him and lights with delicate glass fixtures hung low over an island with the same black stone countertops. Louis pulled a drawer open and placed a pan on the counter above his head before lithely moving to the refrigerator and emerging with a carton of eggs.

 

“So are you single, Styles?”

 

Harry guffawed a loud honk of a laugh at the abrupt question.

 

“You don’t waste any time, do you?”

 

Louis spun around suddenly, his shoulders high and tense. Harry’s mouth went bone dry at the look in his eyes and the way the tension made his bicep muscles bulge in his t-shirt. It was like something out of a bad porn film, but for fucks sake it was working.

 

“I don’t like to waste time, no. We met for the first time over six months ago. And when they were making selections for shooting and asked me to come aboard, I told them only on the condition they got you. They never thought they would, see. And neither did I. But when I heard you’d agreed, I called the producers the same day and told them to send over the paperwork.”

 

Louis had arranged this? Louis was the reason they’d even asked in the first place?

 

“You were the reason I said yes.”

 

Harry didn’t know where it came from, somewhere inside his gut. His eyes bulged at the sudden revelation. He thought he saw something flash across Louis’ face, but he stoically turned back around and began filling the pot he’d removed with water from the tap.

 

“Do you know what makes a good Scotch Egg, Styles?”

 

Harry was confused and slightly put out. They’d both only just discovered that they were here for each other and Louis had gone right back to cooking.

 

“I’m not the chef.” Harry said flatly.

 

Louis chuckled. “That’s right, you’re not. See you have to have a good fry once it’s all boiled and coated in sausage and bread crumbs, no one likes a greasy Scotch Egg. You have to make sure you cook the sausage all the way through, that’s important too. But the entire thing will be a failure if you don’t get the boil on the egg exactly right.”

 

Harry was starting to get frustrated as he watched Louis ignite the fire underneath the pan of water with a click, click, click from the hob.

 

“Do you know how long it takes to perfectly boil an egg?” He continued, turning around to face him again. 

 

“Can’t say that I do.”

 

“Well consider me your teacher and… shall we say investor? I have some things riding on the fact that you’re going to win this season. Would be a shame to lose them. I can help get you to the end. Are you game?”

 

“You mean like cheating?” Harry’s voice fell flat once again, but he’d never been the person to cheat his way to anything, even the victory on a silly cooking show.

 

“No, not at all. I mean giving you lessons to make you the best damn celebrity cook this show has ever seen.” He advanced toward Harry, closing the gap to about an inch of space. Harry could see his stubble again and could practically feel his breath coming from his body. His heart began thudding against his chest in response.

 

“And where,” he began to speak just above a whisper, “or when would these lessons begin?”

 

“I’m so glad you asked,” Louis breathed, moving even closer to Harry so that Harry could feel his breath on his neck. “The answer to my earlier question is fifteen. It takes fifteen minutes like clockwork to properly boil an egg.”

 

Harry could feel his breathing growing heavier, practically panting into Louis’ ear. Here was a man he barely knew growing closer and closer to putting his mouth on the crook of his neck and all Harry could think of was how consumed he was by want.

 

“You see, I’m not used to not getting my way. I’ve wanted you naked since the first time I saw you in that ballroom. And I know you want me naked, too.”

 

Harry could only nod, afraid to try to speak only to have whimpering squeaks escape him. 

 

Louis pressed his lips to Harry’s neck and a livewire jolted through him, causing a gasp to catch in his throat. Sinfully, he felt Louis smile against the thin skin of his neck where he was still planted.

 

“Consider this a trial run,” Louis whispered, hot breath tickling Harry’s ear. “We will keep learning—and fucking—if you can make me and you come before the egg is done boiling. Now. Are you game?”

 

Harry nodded again, this time without hesitation. The only thought in his mind was stripping the clothes off of Louis and getting to work.

 

“Good.” Harry felt Louis’ hand reach around him for a wind-up timer. He heard the timer twist as Louis reached down between them to unzip his jeans. “The water just started boiling. Go.”

 

Harry pulled himself out of his stupor and pressed his lips to Louis’. Sparks lit behind his eyes and his head swam as he felt Louis push the jacket off of his shoulders, never breaking out of the kiss as he put a hand down to unzip Harry’s trousers, as well.

 

Harry broke them apart to tug the shirt over Louis’s head, raking fingers through the soft brown tresses as he brought his arms back down over the planes and dips of Louis’ arms, Louis’ back, Louis’ waist. He brought his kisses down to Louis’ neck, gently biting as Louis insisted he lift his arms to remove Harry’s shirt. Their clothes were in piles on the floor as they stumbled backward to some sort of furniture. A couch, Harry noted as they tumbled backward, Harry sinking to his knees to grab the waistband of Louis’ jeans and pants and give a pull.

 

Louis’ cock sprang free from the material that bound it, rock hard and glistening red and wet. Harry had never seen anything more gorgeous. He brought his eyes up to lock onto Louis’, still blue but blown wide with lust. Suddenly, dry mouth was no longer a problem. Harry was salivating, longing to get his lips around Louis. 

 

“Well the egg may not be hard yet, but you certainly are.” Harry smiled as he planted a firm hand around the base of Louis’ cock and gingerly gave a tug, feeling it slide up easily. 

 

Louis hissed between his teeth at the sudden sensation. “This one’s got jokes it seems,” he snarled. 

 

Harry winked as he moved his head down, engulfing Louis from tip to base in one smooth slide of the jaw. Louis bucked his hips up, hitting Harry in the back of the throat and causing his airway to tighten.

 

_ “Fuck, Harry!”  _ Louis yelled through an echoing apartment. Hearing Louis shout his first name only spurred him forward. He began working back and forth methodically, flicking his tongue easily down the underside and running it back up the vein. He could feel Louis tense and loosen in cycles, clenching his arse cheeks to move further backward in Harry’s mouth and hooking hands into Harry’s hair at the back of his head.

 

“H-has anyone ever t-told you that you’re  _ really fucking good at this _ ?” Louis moaned in a high-pitched, thin voice, bucking his hips upward. 

 

Harry popped off the tip to give himself air and respond, “I’ve been told once or twice.” He smiled again and began working his hand up and down Louis’ shaft in time with his mouth and tongue, rhythmically watching Louis Tomlinson fall apart around him made his own cock ache with want. He reached a hand down and began stroking vigorously. As if prompted, Louis popped open the eyes he’d had squeezed shut and looked down.

 

His eyes bulged as he threw his head back and bit his lower lip, flicking his fringe out of a sweaty forehead. 

 

“Fuck, Harry. I’m so. I’m so fucking cl—”

 

Harry assumed the word Louis was about to say had been  _ close  _ but it never fully reached fruition of spoken word because his hips began to stutter upward first, his fingers pulling Harry’s head down even further by the back of it as he began to spill into Harry’s mouth, a long, loud moan ringing in Harry’s ears as he swallowed the hot come and popped off of the tip of Louis’ cock with a final lick for good measure.

 

Louis lay there for a moment totally undone as Harry stood shakily. Harry could see Louis’ chest heaving as his eyes fluttered open again. 

 

“C’mere,” he said in a thin, raspy whisper. He licked his palm as Harry approached and began pulling Harry in surprisingly long, lithe motions for a man who was still riding the wave of his own orgasm. Propelled by watching Louis’ flight and his hand moving swiftly back and forth on his own shaft, Harry felt himself begin to fall over the edge. His arse cheeks clenched as he struggled to stand and Louis pulled him down practically on top of him with his free hand, never breaking contact or motion as Harry toppled gently to the couch and began pulsing his own come into Louis’s hand and over his chest and stomach.

 

They were crumpled in a sweaty, sticky pile on the couch, chests heaving up and down, unable to speak. Suddenly from the kitchen, the timer sounded.  _ Ding! _

 

Louis sighed from underneath Harry.

 

“That egg’s gonna be rubbish. But at least we’re both going to win the show.”

 


End file.
